Halo
by Oasis Blackmore
Summary: Dean wore his guilt like shackles on his feet. Castiel-centric. Post "Abandon All Hope." Oneshot. Inspired by Depeche Mode’s “Halo.”


**A/N: A loosely canon-based take on Castiel's powers of human understanding, in which they are facilitated by touch.**

Halo

Castiel returned on a whisper of wings, having gone out by himself to give his human affiliates time to mourn in one of their many strange ways, and found Dean slumped into a wooden chair, head cupped in calloused palms. He had to have sensed the angel's presence by the time Castiel noticed him--always did, somehow--but made no sign of acknowledgement.

Sam would say that Dean's slack, vulnerable body language indicated his need to talk about his feelings, would then inveigle his older brother into a confession of some sort, and after an argument and usually much anger on Dean's part, they would be happy again, relatively speaking.

Sam was nowhere in sight.

Castiel was well aware that communicating with people in any manner, let alone one of comfort, was not his strong suit--far from it, in fact. In a moment of irritation, Dean had once called him a "social retard," which he had taken to mean he was slower than humans were at understanding the emotions of others, especially through speech and facial expressions. As Dean knew, however, if Castiel laid his hand upon a person, he was able to secure an honest insight into their innermost anxieties, their motivations, desires, hesitations, and shortcomings. This method was easier, by far, than slow and awkward discussion.

Similarly, when Castiel had pulled Dean from Hell and pieced together the viable bits of soul leftover from his tribulations there, all the secrets Dean had ever kept were shared with him. They had been at their closest when they had first met, unbeknownst to Dean, who believed their connection had developed over time. Since that first grip, Castiel had not used his gift on the man he had grown to consider a friend, a concept to which he had never truly given thought before leaving Heaven.

After a few minutes of Castiel's hovering, Dean would normally have uttered some snide remark in place of a greeting, but the opposite was true at this moment; he remained silent in his seat, unmoving. Castiel was . . . Well, he supposed "curious" was the appropriate word for the keen sense of interest he felt regarding what was keeping Dean so quiet, though another feeling--Jimmy insisted, _Concern_--tugged at the edges of his being.

"Hello, Dean," he announced, moving his vessel closer to the man.

Dean breathed out in resignation before responding lowly, "Hey, Cas."

"You are . . . depressed?" Castiel's segue into emotional conversation registered as nonexistent.

"What tipped you off?" Dean questioned, lifting his head so Castiel could see his scowl. "The fact that my friends are dead? Or that I was _stupid_ enough to think I could kill the Devil?"

"Both are unpleasant," Castiel answered, oblivious.

Dean rolled his eyes and dropped his face back into his hands. "I was being sarcastic."

"Oh . . ." Castiel nodded as he recognized the term, but he was distracted. "Your brother would ask you to explain your emotions," he pressed.

Dean snorted. "He wouldn't ask; he'd just start talking."

With his head cocked to the side, Castiel deliberated on this point. Was Dean hinting that it wouldn't necessarily be _wrong_ for Castiel to gather information about his feelings without asking? Understanding the problem would make it much easier to offer condolences, after all. His overwhelming curiosity on this issue, for which he blamed the human weaknesses of his vessel, left no room for a different translation, and he took another step forward, just near enough to graze the legs of the chair with Jimmy's trench coat. He placed a firm hand on Dean's shoulder, inadvertently brushing the raised scar he had left upon their first encounter.

Dean flinched at the touch and turned to look up at Castiel, whose gaze was trained upon the wall across from them as he listened in on Dean's churning consciousness. "What're you--"

"You're feeling guilt," Castiel interrupted, inquisitive eyes snapping down to lock with Dean's.

Dean's realization of what Castiel was doing was accompanied by a glower of mistrust and the arm that swung out to knock Castiel's fingers away. "What the hell!?" he cried vehemently, rising to his feet to look Castiel in the face. "You can't just read people's minds like that!"

Castiel blinked confusedly, contracting his vessel's bruised digits by reflex. "You were not upset when I touched the prostitute in the den of iniquity."

"The prostitute wasn't--She--" Dean glared daggers into the angel, fuming. "You can't read _my_ mind, Castiel. It's an invasion!"

Castiel realized how serious Dean was upon the use of his full name. "Like 'personal space?'" he inquired, mentally reprimanding himself for having given in to temptation and displeased his charge.

"_Exactly_ like personal space," Dean growled, leaning into Castiel's own space as he continued, "And what the hell do you know about _feelings_, anyway? You're a goddamn, heartless angel!"

Excluding the curse words Castiel now understood were only expressions and not meant to be taken literally, the latter part of Dean's shouting was true; angels didn't have hearts in the biologically necessary way that humans did, were fueled not so much by blood and electricity as by light and what Dean would call magic, but Castiel sensed that Dean was referring to a much less scientifically sound idea and was not thrilled with the implication of the statement. It was Dean's way of comparing him to his unholiest of brothers, Lucifer. Castiel was surprised by the sudden gloominess he was experiencing and, interpreting this to be shame, as the comparison was not all false, he dutifully cast his eyes to the floor. "I apologize, Dean."

Dean's fury fizzled out as he took in the hangdog appearance of the chastised angel and dropped his stance with a sigh. "Nah, man . . . It's not you. I just . . ." He shook his head instead of offering up his thoughts. "I didn't mean to yell at you like that," he repented, falling back into the chair.

With his typical rationality, Castiel promptly accepted the apology and had no trouble moving on. "I wanted to know about your feelings," he informed bluntly, watching Dean's depression reclaim his body from its former ferocity.

Dean looked at him askance. "Well, now you do," he muttered. "But instead of . . . doing that, just _ask_ me next time, okay?" he requested with a pitiful mix of pleading and hopelessness in his voice.

Castiel observed the man before him almost sympathetically, pondering what a burden it must be to experience the full range of human emotion as strongly as Dean did. From the brief contact Castiel had managed before Dean shoved him away, he had gathered that Dean's most debilitating worry was his guilt, which kept him fastened in place like a ball and chain, made heavier by every death he witnessed, every person he couldn't save, every Hell-beast that escaped because he had broken the first seal and because he hadn't been able to keep Sam from breaking the last.

Castiel knew and regretted his own part in all of it--had he been prone to self-reflection, it might have tormented him--and to force the entirety of that weight onto a mere human, a human who had tried so hard . . .

"I don't blame you," Castiel declared, the monotone syllables passing through his vessel's lips with conviction.

"Great," Dean grunted, unfazed by this attempt at consolation; he had barely been paying attention.

Castiel's forehead furrowed in frustration at his solace going unheard. "I don't blame you," he repeated a little more forcefully, inching closer for emphasis.

Dean raised an eyebrow and shrugged with pretended nonchalance. "_Okay_."

"For the Apocalypse," Castiel added as a matter of clarification, waiting expectantly for Dean's recovery from his unhappiness.

"Right . . ." Dean agreed with thinly veiled suspicion.

Castiel's frown was almost a pout. "I don't think you understand my meaning."

"No, I gotcha," Dean opposed, sounding more annoyed than anything else. "You don't want me to feel guilty. Whoopdeedoo."

"'Whoopdee . . .'" Castiel comprehended the sarcasm just in time and clenched his jaw crossly, determined to cheer up his human friend. "_Dean_." In a blink, he was in front of Dean's chair and leaning forward, one hand on each of Dean's shoulders, five fingers lined up with the embossed handprint on the left, both eyes piercing beyond Dean's visage and into his essence. "I. Don't. Blame you," he said one last time, enunciating each word in his gravelly way.

The gravity of these actions seemed to have the desired effect. Dean's eyes went wide and shimmery. His too-strong-to-break expression flickered. His mouth did twitch as if he planned on arguing, but he couldn't pull himself from Castiel's overpowering stare, his Heavenly magnitude.

"And _you_ shouldn't, either."

At this, Dean's façade disintegrated, revealing for an instant the wretchedness that tore at his soul, before he fell forward into Castiel's vessel's jacket, clutching desperately at the cloth until the angel's arms encircled him and washed him in a brilliant and indubitably comforting light.


End file.
